Her Lone Wolf (29 page)

Somewhere South of Khorugh, Tajikistan

Minka refused to scream anymore.

She sat on the floor with her back against the wall of a small, cold, concrete room while three men threw sharp stones at her. The doctors who had made her into the animal she was stood behind them, writing down their observations in little notebooks and recording her reactions with their cameras.

“Hit her harder,” one of the doctors said in his strange accent. “We need to see her instinctive reactions. Force her to respond.”

She covered her face and head with her arms, turning into the wall to protect herself. But the stones found vulnerable spots anyway, drawing blood, causing pain. She bit her lip and tried to make herself a smaller target. She would not scream anymore, no matter how hard they hit her. Because when she did, the men would laugh. And when they did that, something in her would snap and she wouldn’t be able to stop the thing inside her from coming out.

Minka knew because she had tried with all her heart and soul to keep the beast contained. But it was hard. Most of time, it was impossible. When she was scared, in pain or angry, it simply came out.

The doctors knew this and used it against her. To test her, they said.

So, as hard as she tried, this time proved to be no different.

A large stone clipped the back of her head, smashing a finger at the same time. The pain was so intense she screamed. As it morphed into a hissing snarl, she whipped around, catching the next incoming rock in mid-flight and flinging it back at the man who had thrown it.

The stone struck him between the eyes, knocking him to the floor. She leaped across the room before he’d even hit the floor, intending to slash and tear with her long, sharp claws, but the chain around her ankle snapped taut and she crashed to the floor like she had every other time before.

The pain in her leg paled in comparison to the pain of failure.

She looked up and growled her hatred at the four remaining men. The man she had struck with the stone would not be getting up—ever. His two friends looked at her with undisguised hatred on their faces, but the doctors were smiling and praising her instincts, her reaction time, and her aggression.

Minka lowered her gaze to the dead man on the floor and wished it was her lying there instead. She didn’t want to kill anyone, not even these men who hurt her. But she had no choice. The animal inside her wanted to kill all the time.

“Why did you do this to me?” she demanded, the sound of her own voice still strange to her when she was like this.

One of the doctors—the older one who seemed to be in charge—stepped closer. He stayed behind the two men who had been throwing stones, careful to stay well out of her reach.

“We told you before,” he said. “We did this to make you better.”

Better? How was this better?
“But I did not want to be like this!”

The other doctor came closer. He was younger, braver, and more foolhardy. Minka did not like the way he looked at her.

“You should be happy,” he told her. “You are our greatest success to date. Many men and women before you died in horrible pain so that we could create you.” He turned to the other doctor. “You’d think she would show some gratitude after all we’ve done for her.”

The older doctor regarded her thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should show her the videos of our previous attempts so she can see how lucky she is.”

“That might work,” his partner agreed. “Perhaps the video of that little girl in Canada.”

Minka’s eyes widened. “You did this to a little girl?”

She hissed, jerking against the chain anchored to the wall.

“We thought that administering the DNA infusion just prior to puberty would improve our chances of success,” the older doctor explained. “That hypothesis proved dramatically incorrect. The poor girl died in tremendous pain. Or at least she appeared to be in tremendous pain. She died before we could learn exactly what happened to her body.”

Minka leaped again. She was all too willing to maim herself to get her claws into these men. For the first time, she actually wished her claws were longer and less curved. Then she might have been able to at least scratch him.

“You’re monsters,” she growled.

But the men only laughed and walked out, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her cursed body. They had wanted to see her perform, and she had.

Her hair fell over her shoulder as she lowered her head. She watched through tears as her wicked, curved claws retracted. She wondered where they went and how it was possible for claws that long to disappear inside her small fingers.

But she knew the answer to that question. She had said it herself when she had called the two doctors monsters.

She was a monster now, too.

Here’s a sneak peek at book 3 in Paige Tyler’s hot X-Ops series:

Her Wild Hero

The flight down to Costa Rica was pure hell. Instead of the roomy C-17 or C-5 Declan MacBride had expected, they’d been stuck in the cargo area of a smaller C-130 plane that was mostly filled with pallets of equipment and supplies. He and the rest of the team had been relegated to two sets of drop-down benches wedged between pallets of bottled water. Worse, the two rows of uncomfortable seats were facing each other. Brent, Gavin, and Kendra were on one side, while he and Tate were on the other. Which meant he had to look at her the whole way. There was a time when he would have thought spending an entire day gazing at Kendra was time well spent, but being forced into close proximity with her now made him mad as hell.

Or maybe he was still just pissed off at Tate. He and the former U.S. Marshal had gotten into it pretty good before leaving the tarmac at Anacostia-Bolling.

“Why the hell is Kendra coming with us?” Declan had demanded when he finally got Tate alone. “There’s no reason for us to be going down there, but there’s even less for her. She doesn’t even add anything to the team.”

Unless you counted long blond hair, big blue eyes, and the sexiest butt he’d ever seen.

“Look, I know you don’t want to be around Kendra,” Tate said. “I’m not thrilled at the idea of her tagging along with us either, but John wants her to get some field time on a low-risk mission—sort of a reward for all the hard work she’s been doing.”

Declan swore. “You know that’s crazy, right? There’s no such thing as a low-risk mission, not when every third person in the place we’re going carries a weapon. Is John willing to let her—or one of us—get killed just so he can give her a freaking
reward
?”

“No one’s going to get killed,” Tate shot back. “And unless you want to quit the DCO in protest, there’s only one option—shut up and soldier on.”

“I’m a forest ranger, not a soldier.”

“Yeah? Well, go over there and take a look in your rucksack. I’m pretty sure forest rangers don’t carry the amount of weaponry you have shoved in that bag.”

Tate was right, dammit, but Declan still growled in frustration.

His friend sighed. “I know the situation sucks, but it is what it is. You have to get your head right or somebody is going to get hurt. But it won’t be because of Kendra, it’ll be because of you.”

That had pretty much been the end of the conversation. Tate had left Declan there staring at the cracked asphalt of the runway, wondering how he was going to handle two weeks in the same jungle as Kendra.

But no answer had been forthcoming then, and twenty hours later as he sat wedged into the too-small strap seat, he still didn’t have one.

Being so close to her shouldn’t bother him. He’d gotten over his crush on her and moved on. As he stole occasional glances at her, he knew that was a crock of shit. He’d tried, he really had. But since deciding four months ago that enough was enough and it was past time he stop pining for a woman who refused to even acknowledge his existence, he’d been miserable as hell.

He bit back a growl. Damn, he was pathetic. But there was something about Kendra that attracted him like a bear to honey. He might have chuckled at the analogy if it wasn’t so damn fitting.

Kendra had already been firmly established with the Department of Covert Operations when he’d shown up seven years ago. Back then, she’d mostly shadowed the training officers and watched—taking notes, making her quiet observations and recommendations directly to the trainers. At the time, Declan had been coming off the disaster that was his relationship with Karen, so he hadn’t been interested in getting involved with any woman. Plus, he’d been consumed with trying to fit in with his team and learn everything they had to teach him. He had no military training to fall back on, so there’d been a lot to learn. By the time he’d gotten his head above water, he already had it bad for the behavioral scientist.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t string together two sentences whenever he was around her. He wasn’t a Romeo with the ladies by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d never gotten tongue-tied around women—not even his former fiancée. But it wasn’t hard to see why Kendra had that effect on him. She was beautiful and smart, made him smile like no other woman ever had, made the camouflage uniform she was wearing look way sexier than it should, and she smelled delicious as hell.

His nose usually wasn’t that good—mostly because he never used it—except when it came to Kendra. Then it worked just fine. Sometimes he could pick up her scent from the far side of the DCO training complex. Sitting this close to her now, it was the only thing he could smell, and it was overwhelming. He closed his eyes, hoping to block out her scent, but it was useless. Her pheromones surrounded him, holding him prisoner and refusing to let go.

He’d tried to catch Kendra’s eye for years and fallen flat on his face every time. Because she was too busy obsessing over that jerk, Clayne Buchanan. It had taken Declan a while, but he finally realized he was wasting his time—and his life—waiting for her and had decided to move on.

And it had been working. He’d gotten to the point where he didn’t think about her 24/7, didn’t subconsciously sniff the air to catch her scent the minute he drove onto the DCO complex. He’d even dated a few women he thought might have long-term potential. There might not be that same animal attraction he felt with Kendra, and he’d have to hide his shifter side, but that wasn’t too high a price to pay to be normal, right?

Before today he thought he’d been well on his way to forgetting about Kendra and getting on with his so-called life. Then John had decided to send her on this mission and everything Declan thought was in the past came right back and smacked him in the face.

For the first time in forever, he felt like putting his fist through a wall. But as he felt his anger rise again, he realized he wasn’t angry at John, or Tate, or even Kendra. He was mad at himself for being so screwed up that the mere thought of being in the same jungle as the blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty could get him so twisted up in knots.

Damn, he really was pathetic.

Her Wild Hero
Coming May 2015

Enjoy a sneak peek at Paige Tyler’s brand-new series:

Hungry Like the Wolf

Gage Dixon strained against the heavy barbell, relishing the resistance as the stacked metal plates on either end of the solid steel bar made the whole thing flex. The bar quivered slightly as it reached that sweet spot of the lift where his pecs stopped doing all the work and his triceps and shoulders kicked in. But he’d already been punishing his body for over an hour, and this time the bar momentarily stopped moving upward, gravity insisting that down would be a much better—and easier—direction to go.

He grit his teeth, let out a growl, and forced his muscles to keep pushing until his arms locked out straight. He racked the load with a clatter of metal on metal. Even then, the bar still bowed and flexed—loading 525 pounds on a barbell would do that.

Gage sat up and looked around the small weight room he and the other members of the Dallas Police SWAT team had set up. It wouldn’t measure up to any of the fancy gyms in the area, but considering they’d paid out of their own pockets for the mirrors, heavy-duty lifting equipment, and free weights, it wasn’t too shabby. It would have been nice if it were bigger, though. The presence of the four other men reminded him just how small the room was.

Then again, his men made most rooms seem small—special weapons and tactics (SWAT) teams tended to attract big, muscular men, and his particular team happened to be bigger than most. No surprise there either—alpha werewolves were always big as hell.

Gage wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his arm and took a moment to appreciate the relative peace and quiet. Regardless of the room’s size, it was rare for there to be only a handful of men in it. But with half the team out helping run weapon qualifications at the police academy and most of the others out conducting joint training with the ATF, the compound was practically empty.

Across the room, Diego Martinez spotted for his best friend and teammate, Hale Delaney, as the man tried to go for a personal record on the other bench press. At the same time, Gage’s two assistant squad leaders, Mike Taylor and Xander Riggs, were hanging upside down from the ceiling-mounted chin-up bars, seeing who could do the most crunches. Alphas didn’t need much of an excuse to turn everything they did into a competition.

They hadn’t gotten around to cutting an opening for the air-conditioning units they’d bought for the room yet, so it was pretty warm. Which meant that all of them were sweating like crazy even though they weren’t wearing shirts.

Gage was wondering if he should spring for some gym towels when he heard the sound of fast-moving boots coming down the hallway.

The other werewolves’ keen hearing had also picked up the sound, and everyone was looking toward the doorway expectantly by the time McCall poked his head around the corner.

“Got a bad one, Sergeant,” he said to Gage. “Hostage situation over on Belmont. Multiple injuries, at least two dozen hostages. Five shooters being reported.”

“Well, there goes the workout,” Delaney muttered, getting up from the bench.

“Gear up,” Gage ordered. “I want us out of here in less than five minutes.”

Gage was only thirty seconds behind the rest of the team, but by the time he got to the second floor of the admin building, the other four men were already gearing up. He joined them as they yanked on navy blue T-shirts, matching military-style uniforms, and black boots. Then came the heavy black Kevlar vests, with tactical web pouches attached. The sounds of Velcro being yanked open filled the room as they adjusted their vests, ammo pouches, and holsters to a snug fit. The gear wasn’t the most comfortable stuff to wear, especially during the hot Texas summers, but it came with being in SWAT.

McCall met them heading down the stairs, tossing Martinez and Delaney their military grade M4 carbines, while giving Gage more details on the situation. The kidnappers were serious—there were cops and civilians already on the way to the hospital.

As they moved outside, Gage’s men carefully checked their weapons, yanking slides and bolts back to inspect chambers, then dropping magazines and clips to check their loads before slamming them in with a firm click.

While they’d been working out in the weight room, there had been a lighthearted sense of competition about them. They’d even joked and laughed while they’d gotten dressed. But as they moved toward the operations vehicle and the white SUV that McCall had ready and running for them, the tone had changed. A charged intensity filled the air, the kind you sometimes feel right before lightning strikes.

They were heading out to face a group of men who’d already shown a willingness to shoot cops and innocents. They likely wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a SWAT officer, given the chance.

Everyone turned to look at Gage just before climbing into the vehicles. He glanced at his watch—barely over three minutes since the call had come in. Good.

“We’re going in a little undermanned on this one,” he announced, though it wasn’t something that needed to be said. “There’s a department negotiator heading for the scene, and we’ll give him every chance to get control of this situation. You heard what McCall said, so you know as well as I do how this one is likely going to turn out. These men are killers, so if we have to go in, don’t take any chances. Hit them hard and fast, and let’s get everyone out of there alive and in one piece—us included.”

With that, Gage climbed into the passenger seat of the white SUV, and Martinez had it moving for the gates before he even got his seat belt on.

* * *

“Hey, Mac. We got something.”

Mackenzie Stone jerked her gaze away from the fenced-in compound and its collection of mismatched concrete buildings. In the driver’s seat of the
Dallas Daily Star
undercover van, her photographer, tech guy, assistant, and all-around best friend Zak Gibson yanked the buds from his ears and switched the police scanner on the dash to the external speakers. The blare of a fast-talking dispatcher spouting code numbers and addresses filled the van.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “There’s a hostage situation over on Belmont Street and the on-scene commander has requested SWAT to respond.”

About damn time. “Excellent. Let’s go.” She climbed around the console and into the passenger seat as he cranked the engine. “It’ll take a while for them to gear up. If we hurry, we can get there before they do.”

She and Zak had been slowly roasting in this dang surveillance van for two days in a row trying to figure out how to get inside the SWAT team’s inner sanctum. She’d been so close to walking up to the gate and ringing the freaking b
ell. It probably wouldn’t have gotten her anywhere, but right about now she was willing to try anything.

Mac clicked her seat belt into place just as Zak slammed on the brakes. She was thrown against the restraint, then flung back. “What the hell?”

Zak pointed at the monstrous vehicle barreling through the gate, cutting them off. A white SUV bearing a matching SWAT insignia followed, lights flashing as it raced down the road.

“How is that even possible? They just got the call,” she said to Zak.

“Fast response time?”

She snorted. Just one more thing that didn’t add up about the Dallas Police Department’s SWAT team. She considered scrapping the idea of following them in favor of sneaking into the compound and snooping around, but the gate had already closed. Inside, a cop the size of a linebacker scanned the fence line, then headed back into the building. Just her luck, one of them had stayed behind.

Damn.

She tucked her long, dark hair behind her ear and sank back in the seat. She wouldn’t have to be so underhanded about this whole thing if the police department had agreed to a ride-along with SWAT. Or at the very least, an interview with their commander. Why wouldn’t they want her to do a story about the team unless they were hiding something?

Investigating cops who might be corrupt was never a good idea. But she’d earned her reputation by sticking her nose in places other investigative journalists were too afraid to go. She went wherever the story took her and never flinched when things got rough. She’d helped to make the
Dallas Daily Star
synonymous with fearless, Pulitzer-worthy journalism. So when she’d told her editor she wanted to go after SWAT, he gave the okay. Even if he did think she was wasting her time. There wasn’t a division in the Dallas Police Department that had a better—or cleaner—reputation than SWAT.

It didn’t help her cause any that everyone except the criminals SWAT put in prison thought the tactical team was damn near perfect. They’d taken on some of the toughest and most ruthless crooks, gangbangers, and cartel goons in the city. You name the bad guys, Dallas SWAT had taken them on and taken them down. Considering the load of major shit storms the group had been involved in, they had a ridiculously low number of complaints filed against them. There’d been allegations, but nothing had ever come of them—not since the new team leader, Sergeant Gage Dixon, had taken over eight years ago. Since then, the SWAT team had been beyond perfect.

By itself, that was enough to make her suspicious. All organizations tended to screw up occasionally, no matter how dedicated and capable they were. But that rule didn’t seem to apply to the Dallas PD SWAT.

The police chief held them up as an example for the rest of the department to emulate, and for reasons she couldn’t figure out, the other divisions seemed eager to try. The mayor even used their exploits to roast other civic leaders across Texas and the southwest. Hell, even the Girl Scouts wanted to be associated with them, and SWAT was happy to oblige by lending their muscle-bound presence to the annual cookie sale kickoff every winter. As far as everyone in Dallas was concerned, the SWAT team was better than sliced bread, PB&J with the crusts cut off, and sex in an air-conditioned room—combined.

“Just what do you expect to find, Mac? That they don’t floss after eating popcorn?” her editor had asked in his deep Texas drawl. “Maybe the Dallas PD finally got something right for once. Maybe this city just has the best damn SWAT team in the country.”

Mac had good reason to believe the SWAT team was crooked and a danger to everyone around them. But she had to be damn careful how she sold it to her editor. She had a hard time believing the story, and she’d heard it firsthand from an eyewitness named Marvin Cole.

Marvin was a two-time loser currently out on bail awaiting trial, this time for kidnapping, assault, and resisting arrest. Normally, Mac wouldn’t have given the guy the time it took to call security to escort him out of the building. But then he had something on the one group of people in Dallas who were damn near untouchable—SWAT.

She was intrigued, so she’d bought him a cup of coffee. She figured it was sour grapes—they had busted his ass, after all—but she pretended to pay attention as Marvin described how two big SWAT guys had smashed in the reinforced door of his secret hideout, tossed him around like a rag doll, and took the kid he’d been holding for ransom.

She didn’t exactly swoon from excitement, but then Marvin described how one of the SWAT officers had growled like an animal, then grabbed him and shoved him up against the wall, holding him there with one hand as his feet dangled above the floor. The only reason that got her attention was because Marvin weighed about 350 pounds—and most of it was muscle. Still, SWAT guys were big and tough—everyone knew that. Marvin must have seen how skeptical she was because he opened his shirt and showed her the two sets of four parallel scratches gouged in the muscles of his enormous chest. He looked as if he’d been clawed by a big animal.

“Son of a bitch did that with his bare hands. I lived on the streets my whole life so I know when someone’s messed up,” he said as he slowly buttoned his shirt and sat down. “Those SWAT dudes that everyone’s so freaking impressed with? They’re on something.”

She lifted a brow. “You mean like steroids?”

Marvin shook his head. “Hell no, lady. Shit, I take steroids and I ain’t never acted like that. No, those cats are on something really serious. Something that makes them crazy strong.”

The idea that SWAT members were on some kind of designer drug was insane, but Marvin wasn’t making up the ragged marks on his chest.

Well, today she was going to talk to the elusive SWAT commander even if she had to take the man hostage.

Okay, maybe not. But she
was
going to talk to him, damn it.

Hungry Like the Wolf
Coming January 2015